


Loki and the Shower

by Lycianthara



Series: Loki and the Priest [2]
Category: Marvel (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Norse Religion & Lore, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: M/M, Slapping, Trans Character, Yelling, mild sexual themes, mild violence, self-hate, trans loki, trans protagonist
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-01
Updated: 2016-07-01
Packaged: 2018-07-19 09:26:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,594
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7355338
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lycianthara/pseuds/Lycianthara
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Loki visits his boy, yes His boy, and finds him resenting their deal. The young man is furious, frustrated, and all manner of ugly words. But most of all, he hates himself for being so weak, so helpless, so pitiful. He hates Loki. But the god will not give up, and decides a spontaneous gift would help tip the scales in his favor.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Loki and the Shower

Several days had passed since his acceptance of the god’s offer. He still looked back and resented how weak and pitiful he was then. His resentment boiled and churned inside his heart, mixing with his rage and frustration and not passing. A volatile mixture of self-hatred and rancor against the god, for his manipulation. He wanted to teach his pitiful mortal how to be a Man. He wanted to teach his boy how to grow up. The young man scoffed at the idea, but seconds later regretted his decision.

“Now, now-” The god materialized inside his sparse bedroom, “-don’t go hating this deal. If anything, you should rejoice. I’m giving you this almost for free!” The god laughed, throwing his head back and clutching his chest. He sounded hysterical, almost maniacal. 

“For free?! Free?! You demand that I continue the worship I gave you before New York! You demand that I worship the petulant child who destroyed the only home I ever knew! I hat-” 

A slap fell across the young man’s face.

“A deal is a deal boy.” He spat the word like poison, whether it was to be rid of it or to aim it, it is hard to tell. 

Tears stung at his eyes, and his cheek burned. His head head turned down and to his left, almost comically. He stood like a beaten housewife, in his pale green dress and white boots. They were scuffed and old, ill-fitting. The dress hung loose around his midsection and across his thighs, but tightened at his hips and chest, the only remaining evidence that he was not so starved once. 

“Our deal says you treat me as you did when you were loyal to me, when you were under blood-oath to me, yes. But it also means that that work forces you to live, forces you to make something of yourself. And it gives me more power. Power I will need if I ever wish to return to Asgard.” The god bent as he spoke, eventually clamping his hand around the boy’s jaw to force the two to see eye to eye. His tone darkened, and his volume lowered, driving his point into the boy’s heart.

“Get fucked,” said the young man, just before he stomped on the god’s foot. 

The god released his grip on the boy and staggered to the wall, leaning next to the petite closet. He tilted his head ever so slightly to the side, eyeing the boy as he stood straight to glare at the god.

“Get out.”

The god chuckled, a mischievous glint coming to his emerald eyes.

“How about another deal? I shall leave, for now, and you must wear men’s clothes. You win both ways.” The god’s was smooth as milk, and sweeter than honey, but bit like a dagger at his charge. 

His boy looked down in shame, and sat on the bed, bouncing slightly as he listened to the springs creak. His head bent down, nearly touching his stomach, and his doll hands clasped themselves behind his neck. Breath swept in through his nostrils, floating shakily out of his red tinted lips. His back shook as though he wore sobbing, reverberating in his breasts. 

“Oh, I’m sorry. You don’t own any men’s clothes do you? Such a shame..I won’t be leaving then.” The god smirked, the smug rolling off of him like a foul stench. In reality, the foul stench radiated off his boy, whose water had turned off days ago after he could not afford to pay, again. It was also precisely at that moment that the god noticed. 

“You stink worse than Thor’s goats. Haven’t you showered? Bathed? Midgardians do that sort of thing, right?” The god wrinkled his nose in disgust, eyeing his charge once more, but out of care instead. Not that the young man noticed, his greasy head buried in his dry and cracking hands. Under his breath he murmured about his dilemma, hoping to pacify the gods endless chatter.

“Oh really? The water shut off?” The god sauntered into the moldy bathroom, with its single dusty light. Looking into the shower he almost didn’t want to touch the handles for the water, covered in the grime that they were. But he did, after using his deft magic to clear away the muck. Turning the hot handle slightly, water rushed out of the detachable shower head, blazing hot. 

At the sound of the running water, the boy’s head snapped up, tears drying on his cheeks in little panels of salt. His eyes were wide open, his broken spirit picking itself up just a little bit. The leaves of his mind opening once more, instead of curling into themselves with rot and neglect. He stood, silent as though he were a ghost, and trotted into his bathroom next to the god. He gazed at the water as though it were a holy miracle. And it was, nearly. A miracle of a god’s magic, but certainly not holy. Quick as an arrow, he slipped out of his dress, boots and underthings, the mismatched colors landing in a heap as he leapt under the hot water. His skin burned and he rushed to add colder water. Next to him, the god let out a hearty laugh. He laughed a lot that day, though his charge could never tell what that meant. 

“Clean up. If you don’t stink as much, maybe I’ll have another gift for you when you’re done.” The god’s words barely registered with the young man, who had since closed the shabby curtain. Unaware, he slipped into bliss under the stream of warm water, so dearly missed. His hands reached out automatically to the single shelf in his stall. One clasped around an old rag and dollar store bar soap, scrubbing at his face, neck, and chest. Sliding across the swell of his hips, over and across his abdomen and breasts, cleaning away days worth of grime, soot, dirt, and sweat. His arms reacted like spiders, attempting to scrub all areas of his back, only reaching some. Up and down his forest-haired legs, scrubbing behind his knees and across his thighs, pockmarks and acne were swept away with the pass of the course rag. Sitting as the water poured across his body, sweeping away the suds, he massaged his feet with the rag, and then his equally soapy hands. Between his cracked toes, shunting off dead and wrinkly skin, nearly blistering the tender new skin underneath, taut against his tendons. He rinsed himself off with the shower head, taking it from it’s hook and passing it over and under his feet and across his thoroughly red calves. 

He swept the warm, comforting water between his legs, gently abrading the tender skin there, cleaning away build-up and other gross fluids. A soft moan escaped him at the feeling of the soft and warm water, wishing he could take more time with himself. But who knew how long the gift and patience of the god would last? Standing carefully, balancing on the wall a bit, he hung up the shower head. 

Replacing the now rinsed rag and used bar of soap, his hand passed over the 2-in-1 shampoo he used. Only a dollar at the corner store, and lasting him months, it seemed like the one thing he could afford as a luxury. It left his locks tight and silky, with little breakage. Even after a night of sleeping on damp hair, he could comb it as he wished. His hands swept the gel turning into suds through his cropped hair, massaging his scalp free of dirt and sweat, and the burning dry skin he was prone to during winter. Suds of a slightly brown tint coated his hands and arms, swooshing down his body and down the rusty drain. He removed the head again after rinsing his hands. Turning the pressure up into the second hardest mode, he swept the head across his hair in one hand, continuing to massage his scalp and scrape away dead skin and suds with the other.

A brisk voice startled him from his reverie. “Are you nearly done? It’s been over an hour, and my patience grows thin.”

The boy jumped slightly, sliding on the soapy floor, hitting his head on the wall as he fell in the stall. Loki burst into the bathroom and swept aside the curtain at the sounds of head meeting tile. Luckily his boy merely had a bump, not a concussion. 

“Fool. Hurry up, or I’ll make you fall again.” Of course, the god had not meant to make his boy fall, but the idea that he had boosted his ego, and slightly frightened his charge. 

No longer under the spell of warm water, he hung up the head and finished rinsing the last of his hair and body. A towel was thrust upon him once he had opened the curtain, the god enjoying how his thin and weak muscles moved beneath his skin as he dried his hair. His breasts swayed with the movement of his arms across his head and face, down to his neck and shoulders. Then they hung, like the balls he wished he had, as he dried his legs. They settled quietly and without protest across his chest when he wrapped the towel tightly around himself, just covering his chest and the tops of his thighs. 

Sighing, the moist breath pulling across his now soft lips, he stepped into the bathroom and padded into his meek bedroom, standing near bare before the god.


End file.
